


The Ethics of Minimal Violence

by Makioka



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2807360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makioka/pseuds/Makioka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It was because Johnny had a plan that Handsome Bob and One Two were where they were - fucking hiding out in a goddamn attic, listening to Archy's snide sing-song rendition down the phone of the specifics of how they’d fucked up, and hoping Mumbles had made it out.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ethics of Minimal Violence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lousy_science](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousy_science/gifts).



Johnny had a plan - Johnny _always_ had a plan, cooked up by the bit of him that was still a junkie deep down inside, always looking for that next quick fix. Only now he got his kicks from playing the big man, dressed the part and sucked on a fag instead of a bong. There was still that whip-crack nervous energy about him, smackhead all grown up and jonesing for the next hit of his latest poison.

 

It was because Johnny had a plan that Handsome Bob and One Two were where they were - fucking hiding out in a goddamn attic, listening to Archy's snide sing-song rendition down the phone of the specifics of how they’d fucked up, and hoping Mumbles had made it out. Handsome Bob had been inveigled inside for this job, no get away needed, not tonight. Only it never worked out like that for the Wild Bunch, and One Two wanted to kick Johnny's skinny junkie arse, probably _would_ if he weren't the boss. One Two had a right inherent respect for authority - or a healthy fear of Archy, take your pick.

 

"Stick tight boys," Archy said. "Johnny wants to know if you got it?"

 

"Yes, we fucking got it," One Two hissed down the phone, resisted telling Archy what he thought of him and this plan.

 

"Good," Archy said, cool as a cucumber. "Make the delivery tomorrow." And he was gone, the bastard was gone.

 

See problem is, Johnny's developed this thing about art. After the crazy Russian business, he'd taken it up as a sideline. With the art addiction had come One Two with it, because he made a stupid comment about Manet, tidbit he'd picked up from Stella and Christ, it hurt to think about her, even now, ice-cold slippery cow that she'd been, but beautiful and smart and funny and she didn't deserve what One Two had brought down on her. Johnny had latched right on, like he thought they were Oceans 11 or some shit, had them stealing the hell out of half of London’s art scene. One Two was pretty sure Johnny didn’t even care about the value or the taste half the time - the walls of his house looked like the Tate had thrown up on them. ‘Don’t even go together,’ Bob had said, and ‘not aesthetically pleasing in the least.’

 

Bob said a lot of shit like that now, with his handsome mouth, looking sideways at One Two like he wanted a reaction, pushing and pushing, like he could never call it quits, getting under One Two’s skin like nobody else ever could. One Two had got wise to it, kept his cool, because that infuriated Handsome Bob more than anything else, and put One Two back in control of this seething thing that frightened him.

 

So it was a quick in-and-out, smash-and-grab, get the painting of the distorted horse and make it out, clean and sweet. Only it didn’t work like that, because things never did.

 

The owner came back, two birds with him, and if he was trying to get his game on _at four in the afternoon_ then more power to him, good fucking luck there, mate, but that trapped One Two and Bob in the attic where the owner kept the painting, already packaged up all neat in its fancy little cardboard tube, and honestly it was anyone’s fucking guess on how Johnny had known it was there in the first place.

 

Mumbles had been in the kitchen, helping himself to the contents of the fridge, and had legged it right quick out the back door and over the fence. He was probably back in the Speeler right now, getting his drink on, and telling anyone who would listen how One Two and Handsome Bob had got themselves trapped in the attic of a secondrate TV presenter, giving the story a bit of a kick, because Mumbles liked a yarn and would make shit up if it wasn’t good enough, probably pissing himself with laughter at this second.

 

That left One Two stuck up here with Handsome Bob sprawled on the dusty floor doing his best unintentional GQ pose, and One Two would give him a kick in the head if it didn’t conflict with his deliberately minimalist principles of confining violence to a minority of sadly necessary occasions. Instead he did what they always did in situations like this, pulled out the cards and got to work, dead silent because the fucker downstairs didn’t have the decency to stick the stereo on loud while he chatted up the girls downstairs.

 

The light from the gable window left weird shadows on Bob’s face as he dealt them in for five card, tongue between his teeth like it was the most mentally challenging thing he’d done all year, silent heaves of laughter when he won a hand - and all of a sudden One Two wanted nothing more than to haul Lennie’s crayfish-consumed corpse from the Thames and beat the bleached bones apart as he thought of Bob in prison, of him helplessly laughing when he cheated at cards, because he was a dead irritating bastard half the time, and those fuckers inside wouldn’t take it nice, not like One Two and Mumbles did.

 

Lennie was fish-food, though, so One Two got a grip, didn’t look at Bob chewing over marked cards, kept one ear open for what was going on downstairs.

 

Bob dealt another hand, and One Two flicked him on the forehead, sprayed the cards in his face, when another pair of twos came up, because that was just cheeky. Bob gave him a grin, gathered them up, swift showman hands counting them through, elastic band back round, and in they went, back in One Two’s jacket, and fucking hell, the owner was really stringing this out.

 

They could take their chances, leg it out and hope for the best. But Archy had told them to keep their beaks clean though, and that meant theft _yes_ , battery _no_. They were stranded here until the owner either gave up or got his end away.

 

When he looked back at Bob, he had to do a double-take. He’d whipped out a little plastic bag with what was clearly half a gram of the old Bolivian and was wiggling it like it was irresistible, like it was a grand idea to get their own little party going. One Two was pretty sure that _what the fuck_ was written all over his face for more than one reason, but mostly because it was Handsome Bob who after that business in Peckham had instituted the rule of not getting wired on a job.

 

Bob shrugged unrepentantly, made it vanish with a flicker of his fingers, subtle sleight of hand, and replaced it with the shiny silver of a condom packet, the dirty fucker, grin stretched too wide, eyes watchful and tense, still _pushing_ , and the condom followed the coke back into his pocket in the same swift movement, and One Two thought about how both those things were probably going to end up in Bob tonight and felt mildly queasy.

 

The sudden blare of the music underneath them gave One Two the opportunity to say, “Thought you lot were all on the molly these days,” because he could punch back a one-two rap of words on occasion as well as Bob could, it’s where his name came from after all.

 

Bob shrugged. “Don’t judge us all on one,” he said easily, and there was a shit-eating smile lurking somewhere.

 

“Trust me,” One Two said. “I wouldn’t impugn the good folks of Soho by taking you as a sample.”

 

“Impugn,” Bob said approvingly. “I like it. You been eating dictionaries again? Whenever you get fucked up on the coke you’ll eat anything, contrary shit that you are. Wonder you’re not a fat bastard really.”

 

Bob was chuntering on as One Two did the sensible thing and crawled closer to the trapdoor to scout along, feeling that the filthy fucker’s eyes were on his arse, and he paused to give him the finger. “Stop staring,” he said, but there was no real heat behind it. After the Russian debacle there’d been time to think and realise that Handsome Bob wasn’t staring at him for one second more than he ever had done - which was a lot - and that maybe One Two should have noticed that before. There was a certain gratuitous pleasure in blaming himself for not ever noticing, not least because it really pissed Bob off. He was not entirely sure what he’d do if Bob ever looked away, since half of his best plans only happened because Bob was waiting for him to make the call.

 

It was worth the risk now - the music was loud enough to cover them and a good enough indicator that Mr News-At-Ten had sealed the deal. They walked straight out the front door with the painting and this is how it was meant to be, riding that knife-edge of just a little too much adrenaline.

 

He said as much when they got to the Speeler, as he stuffed his face with the sandwiches Mumbles got in, and the first pint of day, _also_ courtesy of Mumbles, because first man home gets in the first round, that’s the rule. “This, my sons,” he said expansively, “is how it’s meant to be.” He meant all sorts of things by that, smooth job, good beer, mates by his side.

 

Bob grunted and stared at his phone like he was expecting a message. “I’m fed up with art,” he said disagreeably. “And I’m fed up of bastard Johnny treating us like art retrieval monkeys.”

 

“That’s Mr Bastard Johnny Quid to you,” Mumbles interjected, his impression of Archy uncannily spot on down to dead-eyed hardnut stare, and even Bob’s sudden sour mood couldn’t hold out against that. He mimed the usual slap, and got the next round in, before he straightened his jacket and gave a sunshine grin to the bar because he couldn’t resist playing the fool sometimes.

 

“I’m off on the pull,” he said, “laters, yeah?” He knuckled the top of Mumbles’s head and thumped One Two on the shoulder, like he was checking in before he left. There was distance opening up between them, because in the past going on the pull meant the three of them hitting the town and the town hitting back, getting fucked up on coke and watching Bob effortlessly pull again and again with nothing more than a grin and a chat, always looking like the girl was the best thing he’d seen that night. Now he was out different places and One Two couldn’t help wondering if it was all alike - if Bob did the same thing but with pretty boys instead.

 

Something kicked in One Two’s gut, a little twist of heat, not for Handsome Bob, least he didn’t think so, but things hadn’t been the same and there had been no good in pretending they were. Bob wasn’t out and out, rainbow flagging up the place, but it seemed there was an understanding amongst most of the bar. No questions asked meant they’d be told no lies, and that a joke is well and good amongst friends but you keep your mouth shut the rest of the time. _Which was good_ , One Two thought as Bob weaved his way out, he didn’t want his best mate living in fucking fear unless it was of One Two’s killer jokes, and as such he didn’t know what his problem was.

 

So he did the only thing he could do - grabbed Mumbles by the collar, hauled him up and took off after Bob, only about three minutes behind so it wasn’t like they were with him or following him. Just meandering in the same direction, first on foot and then by taxi. One Two was a man of action, always had been. He occasionally regretted that particular personality quirk, formed as it was after years of constant exposure to Rambo and hard man Dan whose philosophy - best described as the fight isn’t done until you’ve won, you fucking numpty - had put One Two’s boots on the road. He wasn’t sure if they’d appreciate where he’d ended up - the seediest club this side of Brixton.

 

The club smelled like thug spirit inside, strong scent of Lynx, and Bob always knew where to get laid the easiest, that’s for sure. One Two used to wear Lynx before Mumbles took him in hand – gotta smell the part he’d said, and had first doused One Two to the balls in Paco Rabanne and then hidden his Adidas trackies.

 

Only it was like watching David Attenborough get his rocks off in the jungle, this was, anthropological and shit,  machine gun fire of six-syllable dictionary words surfacing in his head as he tried not to catch anyone’s eye, while Mumbles, cool as you please, the slippery bastard, got two beers after a bit of nod-and-wink with the bartender. Pressed a Becks into One Two’s hand because Mumbles had no taste for the good life, at least not when he was paying for a round, and he’d better never make a joke about the Scotch being cheap again, or One Two would shove the Becks bottle somewhere decidedly appropriate to their environment.

 

Bob couldn’t dance to save his life, so he was just lucky he rarely had to. He’d perfected this awkward shuffle on the spot - for a man who could rhumba with a punching bag, he was remarkably devoid of a sense of personal rhythm, and One Two watched with a connoisseur’s eye for a joke. He could almost forget where he was like that, shitty music was the same, it seemed, no matter who was humping on the dance floor, snogging like crazed secondary school kids. Mumbles, bless him and his rock solid ability to ruin the moment of peace and reconciliation One Two was beginning to settle in on with Bob’s gay revelation, chose that moment to lean in and say with perfect truth, “Time to go mate. Bob thinks you’re stalking him now.”

 

Which was only about fifty percent true.

 

Then there was a hand on his arm and this short little fucker giving him the up-down. One Two was almost insulted because his accoster was wearing half of Elizabeth Duke’s finest with a cap indoors and telling him, “Whoever Bob is, he don’t deserve you; now gissus a drink, yeah?”

 

Now see, something people should know - One Two thought best with his fists. Used to pummel the shit out of a bag for the clear space of a thought. It made for a volatile combination at times when you factored in Bob who liked chatting shit for the sake of it and Mumbles who specialised in wind-ups like they were going out of style any moment now. Right then, it could go two ways, easy. He could punch the little neddy bastard for the hell of it or he could call it a night and go somewhere more his style, let Bob get his rocks off with some scaggy shithead.

 

A gun in his ribs sorted him out, though. Mumbles, who saw it all, leant forward and said with this tone of great fucking interest, “Who brings a gun to a cockfight?”

 

One Two and his wee fucking assailant’s faces matched like the bloody Kray twins at that, One Two thought you could probably sweep the floor with their jaws. “Shut the fuck up,” short-arse said, and shoved the gun a little bit deeper, it being that sort of a place where nobody gives a second look at anything that looked like him copping a feel. “I’ve got the gun, yeah? Now you stand up slowly and walk out.”

 

One Two hated guns. Fucking London was becoming a cesspit with the things. Back in the day, it was Hard Dan’s right hand or a dust up with some knuckles, not some pissant little revolver and a jelly behind it. But Jelly was calling the shots and One Two did what he was told nicely like, swiveled a little bit to the beat as he went and if Bob’d chosen this night to ditch the human-owl impression he did so well, staring at One Two, there were going to be words.

 

Mumbles came right along with them both. Jelly was shitting bricks, visibly losing control of the situation - clearly the strong opening salvo had been his one trick, and One Two didn’t want that. Scared men shot off too fast and that was Bob’s line of business now. “Who you working for?” he said.

 

“None of your fucking beeswax,” Jelly snarled back and then promptly shot himself in the foot with a question of his own that took away any leverage he might have had. “Where’s the painting?”

 

It was deja-vu. What was it with the artworld and shady dealings?

 

Still he did a double take. “Seriously? Mr Squeaky Clean put the word out on us?”

 

“How’d he do it?” Mumbles interjected. They were almost round the corner now. _Come the fuck on, Bob_ , One Two was thinking.

 

“Don’t tell me, I know,” One Two said. “Of-fucking-course. Remember that docu on BBC4, Mumbles me man? Where What’s-his-face interviewed the gangs of London? Handsome Bob was right put out they didn’t ask him in for it.”

 

“BBC4, One Two? You’re the only person who saw that,” Mumbles said, smug Channel 4-watching prick.

 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” One Two said to Jelly. “He asked you for a favour, didn’t he?”

 

“Less lip,” Jelly said. “Tell me where the painting is and yous two don’t get hurt.” The sweat on his face wasn’t just from fear. He was high as a kite, probably thought he was Dirty Harry right now.

 

That’s when Bob turned up and it all went to shit.

 

Not the disarming and dealing with Jelly bit. Handsome Bob did that a hell of a lot better than he danced. It was the cop trailing after him that was the trouble.

 

Mumbles peeled away top speed, One Two and Bob on his heels, _cardio_ a filthy fucking word that they’d have no truck with though maybe they should. They should’ve split up, but Bob kept pace with him, sentimental so-and-so, and they lost the cop round about the time One Two got over a wall and came down hard on his ankle. He was never hearing the end of this. Never.

 

Bob was already laughing as he got over the wall and sat down next to One Two, careful inch between their legs, pissing himself with how funny it all was. One Two was about as high as Jelly, all that adrenaline. It didn’t seem so strange to get one hand on his cock, squeeze a little and watch all that laughter fall off Bob’s face.

 

There was a pit that opened up in his stomach at the look Bob gave him, but One Two kept making mistakes and kept on surviving anyway, so why not give the poor fucker what he was desperate for? S’was only right after he and Mumbles got in the way of Bob pulling - it wasn’t that he was convincing himself, had never been the fast talker of the group. He needed Bob or Mumbles to do his denying for him, and Bob was too busy for that right now.

 

Bob got the zipper undone with ease, got his fingers in there all gentle like and One Two was hard, hard enough to leave the panic until afterwards, choked back a moan. Bob didn’t question a moment of it.

 

Didn’t _just_ stroke him, hard rhythm of a too-fast heartbeat, got his face down there, opened his mouth, soft and wet, and went down on him, one hand on One Two’s thigh. The shuddery sensation of his own fear raced down One Two’s spine and pooled in his belly, sick taste of panic in his mouth, every muscle tight and ready for the off, anchored only by the spit-slick suction of Bob’s mouth, too much pressure allying with the dying rush of the chase, and he got his hands on Bob’s head, meant to pull him off, skidded over the prickly velvet-soft sensation of his scalp and lost momentum.

 

Bob’s face had a bar of sunlight slashed across it as he almost wet himself at the sight of One Two’s pair of twos, and he had shittier taste in men than he’d ever had in women, and he was choking himself on cock right now, working it in deep. One Two couldn’t keep his thoughts straight, the day blurring into one mess of helpless feeling, wound up tight and on the edge, straining to push in deeper, fuck harder; Bob swallowed like a trooper and that was the end. One Two came with his eyes open in shock, pulsed hard into Bob’s mouth, one hand on the warm skin of his head, the other clutching uselessly at the ground.

 

Two times made a pattern. Fuck.

 

One Two had seen Bob face down a gun before without a care in the world, but the look on his face when he came back up for air was punched out and afraid like it should’ve been back in those times, and One Two didn’t know how to wipe it away because fact was, it _wasn’t_ all all right, and while he’d been the one to put that look there, he couldn’t be the one to take it away.

 

“Call a taxi,” Bob said as he wiped his mouth clean, looked away again. The laughter that’d been there before stayed gone.

 

One Two fumbled his phone out and gave the taxi company a vague whereabouts of where they were. He wanted to punch the ground, punch Bob - pull out a mirror and punch himself for being so criminally stupid, sick twist of shame in his stomach. Then Bob was there, wrapping an arm roughly around his head and tugging it down onto him for a brief second. “Stupid fucker,” he said, but there wasn’t a trace of anger to it. “Not nice,all right? You owe me one. You owe me ten, actually.”

 

“I just saved you the cost of several drinks,” One Two said. “Should be thanking me.” The reply was automatic, the relief more intoxicating than drink because if they were laughing then they were okay, and maybe it meant that it wouldn’t matter that somewhere down the line, One Two wanted to do it again.

**Author's Note:**

> A very happy Yuletide to you!


End file.
